The Dancing Meme
by mescribble
Summary: This story picks up where The Emptied House left off. Things are stirring - both in Baker Street and London at large. The hunt for Moran continues as Sherlock and John are presented with a new case, but the opportunity will ultimately lead to results neither of them would ever have expected. Second part of three.
1. Chapter 1

_Dear Reader -_

_I had planned for this story to be published before New Year's Eve, but no such luck. It was just as well as finally, after all these months of considering how best to begin this tale, I had an epiphany on New Year's Eve itself, my mind racing with thoughts of Sherlock in lieu of the Season Three premiere. And so here it is. Here is the first chapter. I have grappled with this ever since I finished The Emptied House. I have written four different first pages and then gotten completely stuck. I am so happy to be un-stuck and back in the game. It is, as you know, something._

_All I can hope now, really, is that you haven't lost faith in me, you lovely readers who stuck with The Emptied House or who have been gracious and absolutely knee-bending in leaving your impressions after the fact. I hope that you're excited to see this story up and running - so, so sorry about the wait! Above all I hope that you will enjoy it. I will endeavor to update it as often or at least as regularly as possible._

_Affectionately,_

_Annie._

**Chapter One**

**2013**

**October 5th**

My brother Mycroft was often teased as a boy for being overtly serious in every situation, taking it with his unfailing dignity and never showing any signs of actually caring about what the other children would call him. In college he became part of a group of young men as focused as he that he found some form of camaraderie with, though I never could tell exactly how their bond was formed. Like-mindedness needs no further manifestation than a silent look or gesture of understanding, I suppose, and in each other these five young men saw themselves and their ambition.

Two of them have gone on to become highly decorated in the Royal Armed Forces, one sits in parliament and one is a foreign correspondent working within the most influential medium of our time – the news broadcast. And Mycroft ended up where he always strove to end up: hidden in the wings, running the entire production.

Mycroft has never sought accolade in the form of trophies or medals. He has never wanted to see his name on a gilt plaque of honour; he doesn't even keep his Oxford diploma in plain sight. He has methodically and with precision made certain that he is not a recognized face; that he doesn't draw attention, so that he may do his work the way it needs to be done – with discretion and efficiency. He is not a target because he doesn't mark himself out as one. He keeps no close company, he trusts no one with his secrets.

In that last respect, at least, we were always similar and shared, from an early age, in the understanding of this one true fact: that emotion blurs the natural sensibility of our faculties. This is something fundamental that I have carried with me for as long as I can remember.

Now I stand in my bedroom, buttoning my shirt in front of the mirror placed on my bureau, and as I watch my fingers in the reflection, performing their task with easy and fluid movements, it seems it should be an arbitrarily mundane thing to engage myself with, but for some reason it feels important to allow it to take a few extra minutes.

_Caring is not always a weakness._

Your words. Still muddled by the undefined conviction somewhere behind your haltering presentation, some kind of explanation to it all hidden in your kiss.

My hands pause at the final button. I can't quite seem to get the right grasp on it and my fingers fiddle with the unexpected obstacle until I relent, leaving it and tucking the shirt into the hem of my trousers as I turn from the mirror. I meant what I told you not fifteen minutes ago: love is nothing but a chemical reaction in the brain – this is simple, scientific fact.

So why am I listening for your step on the stairs? Why do I still feel overheated and oddly out of breath, as though the room has grown too small for me and doesn't hold enough air?

Mind over body. A clean and proficient philosophy. One that has always served its purpose in an unfailing manner. Only it seems my body is currently refusing to see reason.

I crack the window open and instead of following my intent of walking back to the kitchen – in order to begin typing up my blog post on the chemical compounds of Moran's rather inspiring disappearing bullet – I am left standing where I am, enjoying the crisp autumn air filling my lungs.

I begin to listen to the city and remember a time when the sounds weren't so well-known to me, when the city was an adventure that took me away from green grass and endless fields into a world of steel and stone and glass. Away from my father's disapproving glance and Mycroft's jarring recitations of the latest Faulkner or Debussy or Dostoyevsky.

The soft noise of a floorboard creaking overhead sends my heart racing and I give a short scoff at the intrusiveness of the reaction, the suddenness of its jolting me back from then to now. But I also understand that I want there to be impatience with this flutter in my chest, I want that impatience to burn out all the rest of it and yet the scoff is a prelude that bears a striking lack of resonance. Because no matter how I may think to brush it aside, there is a difference to everything. There is a still and slow and undeniable wait. I am waiting for you.

I have a sudden, clear wonder in my head asking me if that isn't what I have been doing all along.

Your nearness earlier, that soft heat that radiated from your hand as it moved behind my neck... The sensation is vivid enough to make me close the window with a rather harsh bang just as the doorbell rings. One fairly long press of a rather strong finger. Male client with a slight desperation about him. I glance at the ceiling briefly before I leave my bedroom for the sitting room.

x

I hear the doorbell, but no steps on the stairs, and take it Sherlock opted to let Mrs. Hudson answer the door. I'm seated on the much too hard chair by my desk, barely daring to shift my weight, as though moving now in any way would tip the already overfilled scale of impressions in my head. I am trying to think of how to act normally as I go down to face my friend again. It's only a little past eight in the morning – I will have to go down and face my friend again.

What has kept me rooted firmly to the chair has been my skin prickling alarmingly at the mere thought and it is troubling me to realize how suddenly I don't trust myself. I'm worried that my voice will waver; I'm worried that there will be a stutter or an odd look in my eye or that I'll have trouble looking at him at all.

But then I hear the base of Sherlock's voice from somewhere below. It only takes a few moments of listening to the low steadiness of the sound for the tension to begin to lift off my shoulders. This is not a burning building or a ticking bomb or a gun to my head. This is me in my home with someone as familiar to me as breathing.

And it just so happens we seem to have a client.

x

"Have a seat," I say and steer the man – a Mr. Cubitt – into your armchair, ignoring the goose bumps spreading over my shoulders as I hear you enter the room behind me. "And let me introduce you to my friend and colleague," I add, glancing over at you. "Dr. John Watson, Mr. Tyrell Cubitt," I finish.

You give a nod and approach. I find myself studying you, looking for a clue that will tell me how you relate yourself to the situation of being back in this room. You seem normal to a fault. I take it, then, that whatever took place here twenty-six minutes ago was a singular event and shouldn't be lingered on. But I notice your handshake with Mr. Cubitt is stiff, your shoulder and elbow locked and your grip tight. You're not relaxed. My eyes follow you as you ask Mr. Cubitt if he'd like some tea and, getting a yes to the question, remove yourself to the kitchen.

"Mr. Holmes?" Mr. Cubitt asks and I turn my eyes in his questioningly.

Realizing he expects to tell me his reasons for coming I take the seat in my chair opposite him, crossing my legs and giving him my full attention, which momentarily shifts at the sound of something shattering in the kitchen. I crane my neck to try and assess the damage: you're picking up broken china out of the sink. Muttering profanities to yourself, no doubt. My brow furrows. You're usually not so clumsy. You have the steadiest hand I know.

"Mr. Cubitt," I then say, looking back at the client. When he seems slightly nonplussed, distracted by my distraction, I add: "You may begin."

Mr. Cubitt raises his eyebrows in an 'ah' expression, but then hesitates for a moment, seemingly searching for the right words.

He is mid- to late thirties. Judging by the expensive watch, his nice haircut and finely trimmed nails he makes a good living. He doesn't overspend, however. His shoes have been worn well. I can always tell a lot of a man by his shoes. You wear comfortable, well-manufactured, bargain ones that you keep neat, cleaning them once a week. It isn't that you're all that fastidious, but rather that you have been taught to care for things and they will last longer.

"My wife..." Mr. Cubitt begins. "No, I should go further back than that," he stops himself. "I have been building a small business since college. Last year we had an idea that was big. Really big. My partner and I started developing it and it was right around that time I met Eleanor."

"Your wife," I fill in.

He nods.

"We fell in love. Sort of crazy in love, you know."

I'm fairly certain I don't, but I make no comment.

"We got married after three months. I mean, everybody said it was insane, but I just wanted to be with her, you know."

I'm fairly certain that I really don't, but as these questions are clearly rhetorical I merely steeple my fingers together, waiting for Mr. Cubitt to continue. He wears a wistful expression, getting lost in his own sentiment as he says:

"She's wonderful. I'm at my best with her. I'm _myself_ with her... That's why... Well, when we met she asked for a clean slate. She asked that whatever her past was, I didn't ask about it. She said she didn't want to have to lie."

He looks up at me, something desperate there. I have no reaction to give him yet, however.

"I accepted it," he states, unsurprisingly.

I am about to open my mouth and bid him skip the details so easily derived from the wedding band on display on his left ring finger – there is no doubt that he chose to attach himself to this woman – but something stays the urge and instead I lean back in my chair. Perhaps there will be some detail, something of import that I shouldn't chance missing merely because I find his story telling slightly tedious.

_Consequences._

I completely block out your voice in my head as I listen to Mr. Cubitt carry on with:

"I didn't care what had happened before."

Clearly.

"She wanted to be with me, build a life together, so I thought whatever she had left behind – however bad it was – it didn't matter."

Obviously.

"We could start from scratch. And we did and everything's been amazing. But then a few months ago..."

I smile a small smile. Here we are getting to the true heart of the matter then, at long last.

"Your 'idea' began to get noticed," I say.

"Yes," he confirms. "And we started a collaboration with the government. It led to interest of a merger from The Winger Corporation."

You come over with a tray, setting it down on the table as you ask:

"The Winger Corporation. They're IT, aren't they?"

"One of the largest IT companies in Britain," Mr. Cubitt nods, accepting the cup of tea you hand him.

"And what is it that you'll do for them?" I wonder.

"I can't..." he looks apologetic. "It's classified."

"Oh, of course," I brush it off.

"But my wife... Something has happened. With her. Over the past few weeks she's become..." He takes a nervous sip of the tea, searching for the right phrasing. "She wants us to leave the country," he then says bluntly. "She keeps saying that it would be better to start over somewhere else. That I should sell my share of the company to my partner so that we can take the money and see the world."

He sighs, rubbing his eyes. There are lines around them: fine, new; and his pallor is indicative of not only days spent indoors, but nights spent awake.

"This merger... Well, possible merger. It's stressing me, I can't deny that," he restates what I have already deduced for myself. "I haven't gotten a full night's sleep in almost two months now. And she uses concern for me as an excuse, but it's not me. I know it's not me. I'm _not_ the cause of this. She keeps saying that everything's fine, but I can tell she's... She's making herself ill. I don't know what's wrong. She won't talk to me about it. Something's happened in the last month that has made her feel this need to run as far away as possible. Please, Mr. Holmes. Can you help me figure out what that is?"

I meet your gaze at this question. I can tell by your slightly raised eyebrows that you want to know if this counts as more than a seven. I tilt my head a little at how easily you communicate this to me, for the first time feeling fully aware of it, and suddenly your gaze flickers to the side as you clench one hand the way you do when something bothers you. I furrow my brow again. Am I bothering you?

"Yes," I then say, turning my eyes back in Mr. Cubitt's, "we will help you."

x

I retrieve the teacups and bring them with me into the kitchen as Sherlock follows Mr. Cubitt downstairs. I turn on the faucet in the sink and wait for the water to get hot, hearing Sherlock come back swiftly up the stairs, entering the room. He gives a soft sigh as he stops by the kitchen table and I reach for the nearest cup, nearly dropping it, swearing to myself.

"Everything alright?" he wonders.

I don't turn around, but simply start washing the cup out.

"Fine," I reply, a hint of annoyance in my tone that's directed at myself, not him.

My fingers keep shaking.

"Need a hand?" he asks and this time I turn to him.

He's looking quizzical. His offer is genuine enough, but there is something else there. Some other wonderment that makes my chest constrict dangerously and I answer:

"No, I have two that work pretty well."

He smiles then and I immediately go back to my cup. I wash it for about three minutes, which is clearly two and a half minutes too long, but I can't quite seem to stop the motion of my hands once they start rinsing it out. The warmth of the water is soothing. Something to focus on. I'm beginning to regain control of myself and my hold on the cup is growing steadier by the minute. No more shards for the bin. I can feel his eyes on me, however, and I don't quite know how I'm supposed to move from here.

I thought this would be simple – this deciding to go back to the way we've always been. It shouldn't be difficult when I have felt more normal than in a long time over the past few weeks with him. Having him back. Having us back. But I meet his gaze now and I feel startled and exposed in a way I never have before. I don't know how to work around it. How to get rid of it. And so I keep my back to him.

"Did you read this?" he asks, flipping open the newspaper that's been sitting on the kitchen table.

Of course, he's completely at ease with the whole thing and goes about the day as usual. I'm irritated by how simple it is for him to ignore the things that aren't important enough to him to acknowledge, at the same time as I'm trying to ignore the stupid numbness I feel at him clearly not being even a little bit stumped over what happened this morning. Barely two hours ago. Because isn't it simple proof that I was right in my decision? I must let this go.

"What?" I wonder, putting the first cup down and getting to work on the second.

"They're building a new motorway."

"Mh," I mumble. "Fancy that. The nerve."

He doesn't respond. He's reading the article, no doubt. I finish the second cup and decide that I can't be standing around all day, so I rinse the third one quickly, shut off the water and grab a towel, drying my hands as I turn to him. He's leaned over the table, eyes scanning the two-page spread and when I toss the towel on the counter he straightens up, hands on hips, looking thoughtful.

I have the urge to leave the room for the refuge upstairs again, but this is no way to live my life and so I draw a short breath and instead ask:

"What's so important about the motorway?"

He meets my gaze and then smiles briefly:

"Probably nothing," he deflects, closing the paper and folding it once before holding it out to me in a beckoning way.

I accept it from him, feeling as though it's a loaded weapon I don't quite know how to use and I'll be damned if I back away from the challenge I feel from him to see if I will even try to manage it. I'm almost certain this notion is all in my head and that this overwhelming need for defiance that trails behind it stems from something deeper, all to do with me, not him. But either way I still stalk over to my chair and sit, rather demonstratively unfolding the paper, finding the right page and beginning to read the article.

I hear him potter about the kitchen. He puts the cups away, but seems to change his mind as he opens the cabinet again. Soon the kettle's boiling. When he goes to the landing and cries out for Mrs. Hudson the loud interruption to his quiet meandering makes me jerk. I throw a look his way, shaking my head at him.

"Biscuits!" Sherlock yells. "_Bis-cuits_!" he tries again, Mrs. Hudson clearly not quite hearing him. "For Heaven's sake," he mutters. "Why don't we ever have any biscuits of our own?"

"Go to the shops," I offer, not taking my eyes off the page before me.

He makes a noise between a groan and a huff in protest to that suggestion and moves to the counter instead, collecting our cups and coming over to me, handing me mine before sitting down in his chair. His eyes are on me. I can feel them like tendrils of heat around my nerve endings and it's unsettling me now in completely new ways, but I feel like I want to make him wait. Wait properly for my response. Because I've spotted something.

Finally I close the paper and lean back, meeting his gaze.

"The Winger Corporation," I say. "They're responsible for building this motorway."

He takes a long sip of his tea, eyeing me expectantly.

"They're building it partly with government funding," I continue tryingly. "And... other funding."

He smiles then, crookedly.

"Yes, they're enlisting the help of Red Line Crossing and, of course, as an American company Red Line Crossing is into oil, diamonds, gold and generally depleting the Earth of its resources."

I narrow my eyes questioningly.

"And you see a connection where?"

"I don't, other than all of these moving parts beginning to come together around the same time," he replies matter-of-factly. "Collecting data, John. The basis of any investigation."

"Right," I agree.

He keeps his eyes in mine, watching my face as though looking for more from me, some information I can't provide, some answer I know I don't have, and under his gaze I begin to grow self-conscious enough to rise.

"Biscuits," I say.

I feel like a bloody coward leaving that room. I'm disappointed in myself as well as slightly terrified at it being ruined. At my having ruined everything I have with Sherlock just as I wrecked what I had tried to build with Audrey. And in a moment I'm missing her; missing her kindness and friendship. For over a year she was my closest friend. I want more than ever to ring her, to allow for some sort of safety net in all this madness. Of course, I don't. What could I possibly say to her? About this damned situation, this damned ache in my chest.

I mustn't let this affect me in such crippling ways. Only trouble is – Sherlock has always affected me. I was pulled into his company, drawn to him as though he was a beacon on the horizon of a vast and black and desolate ocean and for better or worse it's steered me here. It's brought me right here. And now...

I pull my jacket on as I exit the flat, flipping the collar up against a gush of wind that seems to press in on me from all sides.

Now nothing.

x

I have the strange urge in my chest to follow you as you leave. I'm unsure of whether it's rooted in an irrational fear of you not returning or in my growing curiosity with your behaviour. You seem slightly erratic in your movement patterns which would indicate that you're nervous and you barely seem able to look at me for longer than four seconds before having to look away or, better yet, it seems, occupy yourself with a task that will ensure you won't have to look in my direction anytime soon, indicating this nervousness should have some, if not all, to do with me. The only thing that could have possibly had an impact on you that it would cause such a change from the easy conversation that flowed between us while we were having breakfast this morning, is how breakfast ended.

You seem, however, to elude discussion on the matter and, quite possibly, it will resolve nothing verbally communicating any reactions I may have had or experienced, or trying to put into context whatever effect your kiss had on me. Clearly you would rather not speak on the subject or you would have taken one of the many opportunities offered in the lull of Mr. Cubitt's departure. Leaving me to conclude the best way to proceed is to forget anything out of the ordinary took place and simply carry on as before.

It seems a perfectly sound analysis of the circumstances, and yet my palms are growing sweaty for some inexplicable reason and I rub them together, deciding it's best to ignore the physical entirely as it's nothing but irritatingly perplexing and concentrate on something more productive for the mind.

Red Line Crossing.

I have read of it before, the millions of dollars that are being invested in the building of a motorway to ease the delivery of goods between the North and the South and help with the detested congestion. A noble enterprise, thoroughly tainted by the fact that the head of operation at this multi-billion dollar trade company – Mr. Richard Smart – is on many of Mycroft's lists. There is a very real possibility, though there is also a complete lack of any proof, that he is tangled up with the Syndicate – Red Line Crossing acting as one of their many fronts and hosting yet another cell of the network.

It would seem the perfect fit. The Syndicate itself operates like a secret society, nestling into every nook of power, decking its resources out in the prestige of the exclusive, catering always to those of the same ilk and gaining in riches with every minute that passes.

I rise abruptly at the thought.

I was so sure that I had Moran cornered. I was so convinced that I was gaining on him. It still grates how he not only eluded me, but used my weaknesses for his own gain. Through me he not only murdered the people blackmailing him, he also effectively erased Mycroft's investigation into the Collective. With the casino gone, Mycroft's leak was exposed swiftly enough, but he took poison five days back and will be divulging no secrets. And the Syndicate have not even felt a tremor of it.

How do you reach the unreachable?

"Woo-hoo," Mrs. Hudson owls her way into the room and I turn to her, mildly dismissive as she begins to clear the breakfast tray.

"You're very good at that," I then compliment.

"At what, dear?" she asks, straightening up, tray in her hands.

"Housekeeping," I reply with a side-ways grin before turning my eyes out the window.

She tuts her annoyance, leaving the room without closing the door behind her. I don't mind. I move the curtain aside, looking at the empty pavement below. You should be arriving back any minute. It never takes you more than fifteen minutes to walk to the shops. You've been gone fourteen.

I release the curtain, my eyes going to the wall that before held a smiley face in yellow and bullet holes. For a moment I wish I had a gun. But the moment passes and instead my pocket buzzes. I retrieve my mobile.

_Meeting. Now. My office._

_Mycroft_

He seems to be in a mood. Dumping carbs again, no doubt. Perhaps we should bring him some biscuits.

I smirk at the thought, looking your number up and dialling.

"Sherlock, I'm there in ten seconds!" your voice exclaims in my ear, slightly distorted: you're running.

The fearfulness in your tone has me immediately tense.

"What's wrong?" I demand.

"'What's wrong'?" you repeat, catching your breath and I surmise you've come to a complete halt. "You're _calling_ me," you say as though that should explain it. "You never call. You _always_ text. I thought something..." You trail off. "But everything's okay?" you ask.

"Yes, fine," I confirm.

There's a rather tense silence and I furrow my brow, increasingly uncertain of how I should behave.

"_Don't_ do that again," you say, hanging up.

I lift my eyebrows, looking at the phone as it goes black in my hand. Why did I call you? Why didn't I text? You're right, I prefer to text, I always have. It's direct and efficient. No need to worry about small talk, no need for distracting anecdotes about little Susan's growing patterns or how far you have to go to find a good cheese monger these days. A text sidesteps the expectation of social interaction and keeps communication clean and simple. I called you because it felt like the thing to do, a moment's impulsiveness, to have your voice in my ear.

The front door opens. You truly were only seconds away then. Your feet are on the steps of the stairs. My pulse begins to quicken and I grow still.

Breathless.

Waiting.

You enter through the kitchen door, placing the plastic bag on the kitchen table and removing your jacket.

You seem perfectly yourself. In every respect.

"Got a text from my brother," I say and you immediately start putting your jacket back on.


	2. Chapter Two

_A/N: Firstly, so sorry for the appallingly long wait, the only reason being life and its godforsaken resonsibilites. Thank you for your patience and thank you so, so, so much to Emelie, Mumriky (hey!) :) and achiveableformofflight (hello, you!) :) for your lovely thoughts on the first chapter. And here's the second one. So hope you'll enjoy it and that it'll make up for all the weeks it took me to get it to you._

_All my best!_

_Annie._

**Chapter Two**

You sit in a surly silence on our way to Whitehall and I can do nothing but surmise your apparent frame of mind has to do with my brother and the last encounter you had with him. You haven't said a word since we left the flat, but showed no inclination to rather stay behind. Your choice to keep quiet regarding what business Mycroft had with you leaves me with a bitter taste at the back of my throat. You don't easily hold a grudge. My brother's behaviour must have been bleak for you to wear such a grim expression.

We arrive at the governmental building hosting Mycroft's offices. Now that the hunt for the Syndicate has been so thoroughly stopped in its tracks there is little need for the covertness of underground facilities and hidden spaces and so he's spending most of his time in his official capacity rather than his clandestine. The hidden spaces are still there, however, for when the need arises to put them to good use again.

The hallways we are soon walking through have known their fair share of death and disorder. They have born witness to some of the greatest moments in modern history, partaken in shuttling decision makers to and fro meetings of international importance and all the while doing so in a casual manner, their whitewashed walls and nondescript carpets harkening back to a different age. The fact that they haven't been modernized seems to be by design rather than default, putting the minds of its daily inhabitants at ease by giving the impression of constancy. If these halls have stood through attacks of war, then so shall England.

I glance at you, wondering if you're thinking along the same lines, realizing that you walk these hallways with a different perspective as this place may very well have played a part in your active duty in Afghanistan. Here decisions may have been made for orders to be given that lead to you being wounded. Suddenly the hallways feel hostile and I'm happy to get out of them as we step into my brother's small and plain office.

His choice of efficient de-cluttering in his subterranean accommodations show more of his true personality than these shelves stocked with files, ones he must never even have had to glance at, and the paintings on the walls that have decidedly been chosen for him by who so ever put him in this room.

The only real marker of his actual rank is the red phone on his desk, standing out like a sore thumb to anyone with even the slightest observational skills. It seems a strange choice that this, on all other accounts, humble employee would be granted such a well-known symbol of power, but then again, perhaps it is made inconspicuous simply because it's placed where anyone can see it. Who would ever think that the heads of every major state with a stake in the world order has a direct number to that phone?

I must admit to always having liked this room best of all the rooms I have to meet my brother in. Here it feels as though he's trying less hard to put up a front, as though he's at ease in these surroundings. Perhaps because they are the testament to him having reached the goal he set for himself all those years ago: to be the voice at the other end of that phone. And possibly that is why he keeps it in plain sight – to remind himself that he is where he always felt he belonged.

I pause at the thought of this being the only home my brother has every truly known. But then I swat the odd sentiment out of my head, focusing on the man where he's standing by his desk as we enter. I immediately know why we've been summoned: he's holding my handwritten report in one hand, looking up at us both with a sanguine smile that has the tendency of making him appear remarkably catlike.

"And there you are," he greets us. "Please, do sit."

"I'd rather stand," you reply instantly and Mycroft's smile widens a fraction as he looks over at you.

"How very unoriginal of you, doctor," he then comments. "And I can assure you, you will be more comfortable seated. This will take a while."

He adds the last with a glance at me and I want to protest, but see that it's completely futile and so I save my breath and take a seat in one of the chairs before the desk. Mycroft stands, as do you, and I decidedly regret my sitting down, but suppress the urge to get to my feet again as I watch Mycroft flip through the pages to his chosen paragraph. Once he finds it he commences to read aloud.

x

Mycroft's voice has become an endless droning, one that I am increasingly wishing I could banish from my head. He's been reading for over half an hour, giving Sherlock such withering looks whenever he has tried to interrupt the recitation that the latter has reverted to heaving a bored sigh every few minutes.

I'm concentrating on remaining still where I'm standing, a few feet behind the empty chair where I was supposed to sit down. My shoulders are still squared with my refusal to take any sort of order, advice or invitation from the man before me. Our last encounter is still too fresh and my distrust of him too acute for me to allow for much else. I would have preferred not to come here at all, but that would send the message either of being intimidated or not having Sherlock's back. Neither of which is true.

Apart from being rather absorbed by my want of remaining still, I'm also focusing my energy on not glancing over at my friend. I force myself to hold on to the outrageousness of Mycroft's last request rather than the last few hours I've spent with Sherlock. The static still lingering will register on my face, I know it will, and Mycroft will read it. God knows what he'll make of it.

"'...the simplicity of any one thing," Mycroft reads on, thankfully turning the final sheet of paper over, finishing: "cannot be comprehended through the complexity of it in combination with the similarities or irregularities of others, but rather it should be dually examined based only on its own merits. As such the end result does not exist merely in one action combined with another, but in the motivation behind each action taken, as the necessity for them arises out of any given situation.'"

He finishes, raising his eyes to Sherlock. I can't tell what he's thinking as he flicks the sheet onto the pile now on the desk, linking his fingers together, observing his younger brother in silence for another long minute. Sherlock doesn't stir. I still daren't look at him.

"You asked for comprehension," Sherlock offers.

"Yes, but how can I comprehend if you leave out important details?" Mycroft replies.

"What details?" Sherlock asks, his impatience getting the better of him.

Mycroft raises an eyebrow before he turns and moves to one of the file cabinets standing in either corner behind his desk. He opens the middle drawer and pulls out a fairly slim file. He pushes the drawer closed and it slides soundlessly into place as he walks around the desk, not handing the file to Sherlock, but to me.

I take it from him, trying not to look as bewildered as I feel at his including me so openly into the proceedings. Usually, I'm the one in the peripheral during their meetings, and I'm not used to him approaching me directly. Unless it's through a lackey in a sleek town car.

"Sebastian Moran," Mycroft now says with a nod to the file I'm weighing in my hand. "The official story. Rather scant, I grant you that," he adds before looking over at Sherlock. "I know you must have more of the unofficial story," he says to his brother. "You wouldn't have thought to seek him in the first place if you didn't. I had thought you'd include more of it in your statement."

Sherlock grows hesitant – I can tell that without looking at him. He's suddenly unsure of how to best play this situation. I'm distracted in my wait for him to make up his mind by the haunting image suddenly rushing through my head of a window shattering and a bullet digging itself into Sherlock's chest, followed by the sensation of him falling into my arms, the weight of him as I catch him. The nightmare is undiluted by the few hours I've been awake and it brings forward the reality of Moran still being out there. Still waiting.

Whatever I may have against how Mycroft chooses to manifest his overprotective side when it comes to his brother, however many times that side to him may scathe me, I am aware of what he is in the context of Sherlock's profession. I know we need his support. And Sherlock seeks it, or he would have shut Mycroft out of his life years ago. Mycroft is resources and influence. And when up against someone like Moran I know there can never be too much of it.

"Is this it?" I therefore ask with regard to the file. "There must be more. You had a file on me as thick as the bloody phonebook and this is all you have on this master criminal, if that's even the right term. He was working _with_ Moriarty. All that time Moriarty was feeding you information... You never got any names? How is that possible? Wasn't that what you wanted from him? What did he actually reveal, then, that was worth..."

I realize I'm beginning to sound accusing and stop talking, clearing my throat.

"I'm sure you did everything you could," I say, though there's a trace of bile there that I can't get rid of, not when knowing where Mycroft's interrogation of Moriarty ended.

They're both observing me intently and I meet Sherlock's gaze for a short moment, seeing slight wonderment there – as if he can possibly still be taken aback by his death actually affecting me in any meaningful and significant way. I feel the overwhelming urge to punch him in the face.

"Of course we got names," Mycroft then says and I get the feeling he's humouring me. "We based the entire investigation into the Collective on information Moriarty gave us. Viable information, I might add. But as we had no leading questions to ask him we had to take whatever he fed us and be satisfied with that. Morsels, Dr. Watson. But helpful morsels, as it turns out."

"Oh?" I ask, my tone carrying a trace of the scepticism I feel.

"It bought us time," he says, looking back at Sherlock.

Sherlock meets his gaze for a few moments before offering:

"Sebastian Moran is unpredictable. I underestimated him. It won't happen again."

Mycroft's eyeing of his brother grows into a near study before he says:

"A few days ago I was given the documented hearing of the witness to Walter Williams' killing, a Mr. Rodney Acres."

"Ah," Sherlock says.

"Yes 'ah'," Mycroft agrees. "What of the detail of how Moran nearly shot you? You neglected to include that in your report – you didn't find it important?"

I glance at Sherlock again. He looks about to make a different reply, his lower lip pushing into a soft, thoughtful pout that lasts a split second before he seems to change his mind and simply says:

"It made no impact on the causality of events," adding with a dismissive raise of his shoulders: "He missed."

When I look back at Mycroft, his eyes are no longer on Sherlock, but me, and his gaze meets mine, having a sinking sensation appear in my chest, a chilly whirlpool at the insight I think I can see in his expression. But the moment is brief, so brief that I immediately start to question my first interpretation of it, and when he glances away again I suddenly wonder why I'm the one holding the file.

"He won't miss next time," Mycroft says – eyes back in Sherlock's.

There's a slight pause before Sherlock answers:

"I know."

I turn my head to him properly for the first time since we entered the room at that, and wonder at the contentment I'm convinced I can hear somewhere behind the statement. Does he ever fear for his life or does he walk around with an imaginary X painted on his back just for the hell of it, because he gets a kick out of being this live target? Of course it would be the latter, wouldn't it? His recklessness has always been one of his more characteristic traits. Without it he wouldn't be able to do what he does. Without it he wouldn't have had to fall.

For the second time in an hour I want to punch him in the face.

x

You have the file on Moran rolled up in your hands as the cab takes us around Trafalgar Square and further into the traffic going up Charing Cross Road. I think of the day I spotted you, that rush that left me light headed, that intractable need to follow you, seeing you with Audrey, your mouth claiming hers in that effortless way of belonging. I saw you belonging with her and it had made me feel weak and territorial, like a starved animal suddenly faced with the choice to fight with what heart it can muster or go into exile. Perhaps your mood has to do with Audrey. I erase the thought – it takes up too much room in an already beleaguered space.

Mycroft's chastising is still burning beneath my skin. I'll never get used to it and it's always so much worse when it's warranted. I forgot about Rodney Acres. One mistake amongst many lately. I should have taken his testimony into account. I should have known Mycroft would see through my petty arguments and get at the only fact that matters: I failed. And because I failed there is more to come. A mere few months ago and there would have been a flurry of excitement at the prospect, but now... Now I look at things from a different perspective.

My eyes still linger on you and you seem to notice as you turn your head to me. I hold your gaze, questioningly. You more or less glare at me for a moment, but then you let out a soft sigh, shaking your head slightly and nodding to the file in your hands.

"What of that, then?" you break the silence.

I give you a half smirk, unable to keep down my delight at your acknowledgement, directing my eyes up ahead as I sit a little more comfortably, replying:

"Trivial."

You frown lightly in reprove and my smirk widens briefly before I elaborate:

"Sebastian Moran is very good at protecting his public profile. Medals of valour in combat open all kinds of doors."

"You said he's gone into hiding. You said he's a ghost."

"An apt enough description," I nod, my mirth at having your attention vanishing as I consider the man. "His name has never been officially connected with any of the crimes he's committed."

"And unofficially?"

I cock a meaningful eyebrow and you look wondering as you ask:

"How did you figure out it was him?"

"Because he has one weakness," I reply, waiting for you to catch up, knowing that you will.

Your face relaxes with the understanding and you offer:

"He's a shooter."

"To the very core," I confirm. "He can't quite rid himself of his obsession with picking tricky targets and hitting them."

You seem to pale at that, unrolling the file and staring at it for a moment before placing it on the vacant spot between us, as though realizing the name on it should be enough to banish it from your touch. You've grown thoughtful again, turning your focus out the window and I observe you, almost asking you what's troubling you when you turn your head back to me.

"Why did you take the case this morning?" you ask and I raise my eyebrows. "Don't do that," you warn. "Don't look all innocent. I know you have some sort of hunch that this will lead to Moran."

"Might," I correct you. "It _might_ lead us to Moran."

You heave another sigh, glancing at me as though you don't quite know what to do with me at times. I wonder then if what is troubling you actually has to do with me. Are you worried for me? Are you scared this time will be different to all the others and we won't make it out with scrapes and bruises, but with actual wounds to show for it? I so wish you would trust me. But perhaps you're better off not doing so, in light of recent events. My mind goes to that scar on your shoulder, testimony to how a bullet has already passed through you once and I nearly reach out to chuck the file out my window. Of course, I don't.

"Red Line Crossing," I then say, making you look quizzical. "I believe they're the key," I add.

"To Moran?" you wonder.

"To him," I reply. "Or the case."

At that you give me a slight smile, the first real one I have had since breakfast, and I'm taken aback by it. Almost as though the absence of it for a few hours made me doubt I'd ever be able to produce it again. I've always enjoyed the ability, but I don't think it was clear to me before this how much I'd miss it if it was ever actually truly gone.

We arrive at Baker Street and you bring the file with you as we exit the cab. As we drove up I spotted Bernie loitering across the street and so I pay the cabby, keeping a fifty pound note in one hand as I slam the door of the car – the universal cue for any cabby to drive away, which he does – and tell you I'll be right with you. When you see who I'm approaching you proceed in through the front door without any further ado.

"Mr. Holmes," Bernie greets, inclining his head before quickly turning it to the busy road at the end of Baker Street, as though expecting an attack by unseen enemies at any second.

"Any movement?" I inquire.

"No," he mutters, turning his head back to me. "But I know they're there."

"From the Syndicate," I clarify impatiently.

"Oh. None," he informs. "There's not a stirring. They're clever, they are. Tight lid and all that. Now they've had someone at their heels..."

"Yes," I interrupt slowly, suddenly feeling as though a rifle is pointed at my back and disliking the sensation immensely. "Clever," I murmur. "Or ambitious."

"Beg y'pardon?"

"No need for begging," I assure him with a lopsided smile, reaching out my hand to shake his, slipping him his payment before I turn and head back across the street. "Be in touch," I call to him, stepping onto the pavement in front of Speedy's and continuing in through the front door of the flat.

x

Four minutes ago I left Sherlock with someone from his homeless network – a man whose name I can never seem to remember and whose face is obliquely familiar. I suppose this is what makes him so valuable, the same for everyone else who are a part of the network: they are nondescript and blend into a crowd as though they are the very stones of the buildings or the asphalt of the pavements of this city. We have gotten so used to those in need that most of us barely see them anymore. I have to ask Sherlock what the man's name is and make sure to bloody well remember it.

Four minutes ago I entered the flat and continued upstairs. I stood on the landing and gave some thought to whether I wanted to stay in the sitting room or continue to the privacy of my bedroom. I chose my armchair after hanging up my jacket on the hook behind the door. I opened up the file for the first time and began to read what the official take on Sebastian Moran is. I wasn't sure what I was expecting, but the man's credentials are impressive, to say the least.

Besides what I already knew I've now learned that he was nearly killed in combat during a tour in Afghanistan, saving the life of an innocent civilian and aiding in ensuring the safety of his sniper team. He enjoys hunting large game and on an expedition to India once wounded a tiger so badly he crawled after it into a storm drain to end its suffering with no regard to his own safety. He's also half a head taller than Sherlock, was born in 1974 in Yorkshire, an only child who became interested in archery at a young age and did his training to become a professional marksman at the JSTE at eighteen, after only two years in uniform. Reading through his army profile it seems his assignments can easily be traced around the world's hot spots, where British involvement has been necessary, but this spotless biography of his career could all too easily have been manufactured to cover up his presence being required at events taking place elsewhere.

For a moment I have the urge to call up Mycroft, but the moment passes.

What really catches my eye, however, is the final piece of information that states how Moran is a champion card player. He has played a majority of the large poker tournaments and has won nine out of ten, this up until five years ago, when his participation came to a halt at the same time that he chose to withdraw from the public life all together. Or so the official statement phrases it. I'd probably word it more like he went underground to focus on crime and punishment.

I rise to get my mobile from my jacket pocket just as Sherlock breezes into the room, coat flailing behind him and I can tell he's gotten a new thought in his head, one that is of some weight or he wouldn't be moving like a shark through still waters. He shrugs the coat off, removes his scarf and tosses it aside, barely pausing his step as he walks straight up to his violin, lifts it to his chin and places the bow to its strings.

As soft notes begin to drift through the air I dig through my jacket pocket, realizing it's the wrong pocket and fumbling for the other one as I glance at Sherlock's back. I know, even though his face is turned away, that his eyes are closed and I can easily predict how his rigid stance will very soon be relaxing into the melody and start to move with its rising and falling, within its intricacy finding soothing aid to focus. I know these simple things because I know him. But he doesn't know I know. Does he?

No matter. I'm also well aware of how not to interrupt the process my friend is in the middle of. Whatever thought he's had, he'll fill me in. When convenient.

I fish out my phone, retrieve my contacts and begin to tap a message as I head back to the armchair, reclaiming my seat as I hit send, feeling a sudden swirl of anticipation.

I stop the stroke of the bow in the middle of the movement and the stillness of the room is absolute. I've prodded through my consciousness, searching for the correct pattern of thought, the one that will act as a possible safety net when moving forward. I want a wider gaze on the bigger picture, but finally I have to admit that it's pointless, my mind is too blunt, unable to provide me with anything other than the plausible, not the inevitable.

"Not knowing is such an encumbrance," I state, turning to your chair and finding it empty.

When did you leave?

I place to violin with the bow next to it on the desk, walking up to my chair and turning the television on before I casually place the palm of my hand against the seat of yours. It's cold. You didn't leave recently, then. My eyes go involuntarily to the door, as they usually do whenever I realize you've taken your leave without my notice, as though the expectation of your return is to have it be imminent rather than protracted. When you refuse to show within the following four seconds I straighten up and focus on the images on the television instead, ignoring the swirling sensation somewhere in my chest, the restless tap-tap-tapping of the fingers of my right hand hanging uselessly at my side.

The television tells me only hollow facts until finally coming up with something that's actually of interest. I turn the sound up and listen to the BBC news anchor regale the arrival of a fleet of representatives for Red Line Crossing to Heathrow a few days earlier. I have read of their visit, naturally, and here I get to observe their faces. Five men and one woman. All appearing placid enough, but I'm certain they hide dynamite in their pockets and won't go down without one hell of a fight. Corporates tend to be unstoppable once they smell opportunity or weakness. Here they smell both: this motorway cannot be built without their money.

Still no Richard Smart, but it's of little consequence. I have a notion he will make an entrance sooner than later and I don't doubt that he will carry the actual detonator with him, ready to blow the whole deal to kingdom come should he be trifled with in even the slightest way. He's had a cutthroat approach to doing business ever since he took over from his father and he's successfully carried the family company into the twenty-first century, through an unstable economy, proving himself to be a savvy negotiator. And shaking hands with presidents always makes it easier to brush off the pesky rumours of mob involvement and allegations of corruption and buy-offs.

I spot Moran's file on the table by your chair. You read it, then. I wonder what you made of it.

My mobile lights up with a text and I grab it, reading:

_Just got in remains that were found _

_this morning in the Thames and I _

_could use your help. _

_They're perplexing._

_Molly Hooper_

I swallow the bait, passing your empty chair as I retrieve my coat and scarf from the hook behind the door, pretending feebly that your absence doesn't bother me as I head for the stairs. The lack of you is creating an annoying sense of chafing, however, and as I hail a cab I bring out my mobile again, sending you a text to meet me at my destination.

x

I read the text from Sherlock and reply to it quickly before shutting the sound on my mobile off, shoving it into one of the front pockets of my jeans before focusing back on the old friend opposite me at the table. He's just finishing off his second beer, sinking back on his chair with a pleased sigh as he slams the glass onto the table.

"I like drinking in the afternoon," he smirks. "The perks of being an adult, I guess. Getting to have the choice, you know?"

I nod dutifully, wondering if he has ever spent one moment of his adulthood not blissfully stuck in adolescence. I have another mouthful of my first glass of beer while he raises his hand to order a third.

"Come on, Watson – keep up," he urges in male camaraderie and I mirror his smirk, having a bigger mouthful and signalling that the waitress might as well bring me a second glass while she's at it.

Andrew Lloyd went to medical school at the same time I did. He's still got a stubbly chin and short-cropped hair, but there are streaks of gray in both. He's my height and has always enjoyed wearing shirts over loosely fitted T-shirts with obscure quotes on them. This time is no different. His chest is displaying a dark blue slanted text stating: Into obscurity and you're gone. I can't for the life of me place it.

Back in the day he chose to focus on haematology and did his internship at King's College Hospital while I went to Bart's. He always was the life of any party, easy to remember and very hard to forget, and parting ways with him was slightly bittersweet. I was set on getting my life in order and so the split was nothing if not a facilitator of that decision, but I knew life was never to be quite as easy going as it had been with Andrew around. Of course medical school always meant hard studies, but Andrew knew how to blow off the steam that built up before every single exam.

"And there were a lot of them," I comment aloud, having Andrew's eyes in mine as I add: "Bloody exams."

He chuckles his agreement.

"Lots of laughs, too, though," he offers with a wink and I smirk.

We're in a corner pub not too far from the Bayswater tube station. His choice. The place is practically empty aside from us. A German couple happily ordered fish and chips twenty minutes ago and I almost gave them the advice to order haddock instead of cod, but refrained as I didn't really want to open up to any further conversation. Aside from them there's a weatherworn old man at the bar, nursing what must be his fourth gin and tonic, shoulders slumped as though still in the middle of whatever storm scarred his cheeks and I wonder what his story is, wanting Sherlock next to me to tell it to me. I only want it for a minute or two before giving my full attention to Andrew.

It took him less than half an hour to reply to my text, even though we haven't seen each other in at least eight years. He hasn't asked me about my experiences in the army and I haven't asked him if he's settled down. Neither of us keen on discussing either subject. Instead we've spent a few hours reminiscing. It comes easily when dealing with fond memories.

Now, however, he becomes serious, eyeing me as he asks:

"I have this sneaking feeling you didn't want to see me to talk about the good old days."

I knit my fingers together on the table before me, deciding its best to simply be upfront about how right he is.

"You know the casino without a name that was down by the waterfront?" I therefore inquire.

"You mean the one that had every last trace of it spirited away?" he asks, having a mouthful of beer as I reply:

"Yes, that. Did you ever play there?"

"Are you mental?" he coughs, putting his glass back down. "Do you have any bloody idea what money it would've taken to actually get within those hallowed halls? Think I'd be sitting here spilling my bear all over myself if I had that type of dinero? Jesus. No, I never played there."

"Know if something like it's cropped up somewhere else?" I wonder.

His eyes narrow as he watches my face.

"No..." he then says tentatively. "What's this all about?"

"Never mind," I brush off explaining myself. "Would you keep an ear open?"

"For what?" he asks, his brow wrinkling.

"For... you know – information," I offer, at his slightly vacant expression adding: "For if you hear someone say something about something like that casino appearing somewhere else. Might not even be in England."

"Where might it be, then?"

He's beginning to look both suspicious and incredulous and I am growing more and more impatient. Sherlock never seems to have this sort of problem with getting people to help him without questioning his every move and here I'm failing miserably.

"Mogadishu," I suggest, adding: "I don't _know_. That's why I need your ear."

"Fine," he raises his shoulders in a shrug, having another few deep gulps of his beer.

I tell myself I know him. I know he's trustworthy. It's why I've turned to him with this and I know he'll deliver, if he can. He won't go to extremes to get the information, but if it lands in his closer vicinity he'll stretch his hand out and grab hold of it. He'll get it to me. And if there's anything like that casino being rebuilt anywhere in the world, the circuits Andrew moves in can't possibly avoid learning of it. But there's one more thing.

"And..." I therefore begin.

"What now?" he interrupts, smirking to himself as he adds: "An eye?"

"I need you to get me into the next game," I state, knowing that he'll understand what game I'm referring to.

That gets his eyes to grow round with surprise.

"I thought you'd given that all up," he says.

"I have," I agree, glancing around the pub, suddenly unsure of whether or not someone may be listening in, for whatever reason, or very good reasons. I lower my voice. "It's not... It's a long story."

"Got something to do with Sherlock Holmes, does it?" he asks and I shush him, feeling something heat up right beneath my skin at an alarming rate. "Well, that got him all red in the face. Dead giveaway, mate," Andrew says and I'm unsure of exactly what he's referring to.

"Will you get me into the next game?" I try to get the conversation back on track.

"It's a high stakes one," he remarks as though this should deter me.

"When?" I simply ask.

"In five weeks."

"Okay," I say.

"The bottom line is five K," he tries again, but I quickly and meaningfully repeat:

"Okay."

"John..." he says, but I shake my head, grabbing my glass and raising it.

"I have the money," I lie without even blinking. "Will you vouch for me?"

His hesitation is palpable, but he takes his own glass and touches it rather gingerly to mine.

"Chin chin," he says and we both drink to our forthcoming collaboration.

In five weeks I may have created a window. That is unless I'm completely wrong and then I will have gotten myself into a situation instead. But something tells me Moran is the type of gambler who is as dedicated to it as a craftsman is to his craft. He sees it as an art form, one that he has continually perfected since he first held a deck of cards in his hands. He won't willingly give it up and looking at the ingenious layout of the waterfront casino – the cool anonymity within its walls – makes me think his obsession is as intact as ever. That was his creation. The attempted blackmail was made by his employee, someone he might have even interviewed and handpicked himself. That means that the shootings were personal at their core.

I believe he'll attend this game, the type of games Andrew has an interest in are right up Moran's alley – low-key and well out of the watchful eye of the gaming commission, but with a decent pot and always technically accomplished players. A true tiger never loses his stripes. He will be there.

And now so will I.

x

The perplexity of the retrieved body lies not so much in its scalped head or the markings which the killer made with the razor once the hair and skin was completely removed, leaving a possible calling card or message on the victims mouth through two straight nicks in the upper lip. The perplexity lies rather in motive – the man, according to Lestrade, had no natural enemies. Though in cases such as these I tend to look for the unnatural ones.

I examine the body thoroughly, turning to Molly Hooper, who is writing on a computer almost as slowly as you. She seems distracted, however, and stops when she notices my attention is on her, removing her hands a little nervously from the keys before she smiles wonderingly.

"Anything?" she asks.

I remove the rubber gloves with two loud snaps and toss them in a nearby bin before I reply.

"Nothing that you won't have gotten already," I state and her eyebrows rise ever so slightly, though I'm unsure of whether it's because she's surprised or disappointed at my not having anything more to contribute. "Which may be a good thing" I add, turning back to the body, wondering what you would have said of the state of it, the blue tint around the lips suggesting poison was ingested before the victim was so methodically and painstakingly stripped of his scalp.

It looks almost as though great respect was given, in spite of the brutality of the action. The scalp was taken by use of a sharp blade held by hands that knew what pressure to use and how to ease the skin off the flesh so as to leave it practically intact. This would not be done by someone rushing through a successful murder, eager to have their trophy. This was a performance – one of patience and skill. By a surgeon's hands. Or a chef's. Or a killer with years of practice behind him. Or her. There are no indicators here to tell me anything more.

"Call me if another one turns up," I instruct.

"Another one?" she more or less stutters, but I'm half-way out the door and merely send a wave of one hand her way before exiting.

I glance at my mobile as I head out the front entrance of the hospital, but I have no new messages and no missed calls. I try to discard the thoughts running through my head, their unruliness is enough to put me off them. But they seem to set themselves on a steady loop and so I bury my hands in my pockets against the sudden chill in the air, opting for a walk instead of the backseat of a cab, wanting to calm my mind.

I return to Baker Street at half past nine and realize you're still not back yet. I stand undecided for only a moment before I move into my bedroom, closing the door behind me with an unintended slam. One that you won't ever know of anyway.


End file.
